Gran rests a hand on her chest and breathes heavily like she's sprinting after a thief. "Tell that insurance company to go to Hell. The accident was not my daughter's fault. She was on her way to work as a pediatric nurse, for God's sake."
Kost fidgets even more. "I'm sorry ma'am, but the settlement request came with a preliminary report from the Medical Examiner. The results suggest your daughter was on some kind of tranquilizer at the time of the accident."
Gran huffs. "That is a lie." Then she turns to me. "Tell him," she says.
I look down at my hands and remember that stupid email. Wild and jangled. It all fits. It all fucking fits.
/////////////////////////
Gran and I look down at the road from the high cab of Dad's truck. Gran finally stopped driving his half-dead Mustang when it became fully deceased in the parking lot of a Super BigMart.
Gran is driving in angry silence while I tell her about Mom's affair. Her face remains stoic, but the car dips and swerves at odd intervals. I grip the door handle when she takes a sharp curve.
Finally, I've made my case. "Isn't it possible that Mom was on drugs again?" I ask.
Gran snorts. "Your father was a shambling wreck, and your mother wanted a little happiness on the side. That doesn't mean she was back on the pills."
I nod—I don't know what else to do—and wipe a single tear from my cheek. I have learned too much in too little time. I remember when the most important thing in my life was getting into college.
Oh fuck, college. I received my financial aid package from Adams—one that assumes two living, working parents—and there's no way I'm going to be able to swing it. Kost was talking about selling the house, so maybe—if I'm very, very lucky—I'll end up with about four or five thousand dollars for my education. The whole process, he said, could take two or three years.
My phone chirps. I'm half afraid and half hopeful that Ethan is going to change our plans. But it's not Ethan. It's Maggie.
Got my package from NYU, and it's sweet! You'll have to visit me in the Big City. I can hardly wait!
Sad, pathetic tears of self pity pool behind my eyes. I'd wanted to start over in college. I was going to become a new person and leave the Amityville Horror far behind. I guess that's not going to happen any time soon. I'll probably need to get some kind of job, so I can keep up with my parents' mortgage payments until the house sells. Maybe I can think about going to college when I'm thirty.
"I'm going to get a job," I say glumly. "College will just have to wait."
Gran's face shifts subtly from anger to resolution. "Of course, you'll get a job. I wouldn't expect anything less. But you can still go to college. Didn't you get into the honors program at the University Extension? It won't be fancy, but it will still be a degree."
Ah, yes, the University Extension...where Ethan goes. I'm not sure if I'm pleased or terrified. I imagine running into Ethan and his girlfriend in class. I bet she's small and dainty and perfectly poised—everything I'm not.
Gran interprets my silence as sulking. "Don't feel sorry for yourself," she says briskly. "Lots of people work and go to school at the same time. Some even do it when they have children."
"That won't be a problem for me!" I yelp.
"I should hope not." Gran chuckles for a moment and then falls silent again. After a few moments, she says, "You know, I don't feel good about leaving you here all alone to fend for yourself. Not good at all."
"I'll be fine!" I reply in what I hope is a sufficiently upbeat and convincing tone of voice. I don't want to be alone, but I sure don't want Gran to stay because she thinks I can't hack it.
Gran chuckles again. This time it's a louder sound, something closer to a full-throated laugh. "Well, why don't you let me stick around and make sure of that? Besides, I can help you with the mortgage payments. I'd hate to see you lose the house before it's sold."
I smile. "I'd like that," I say. "And I think Mom would have, too."
/////////////////////////
Gran drops me at school to collect some things from my locker—mostly books I've been meaning to read. I haven't been to school since Mom died. My teachers said they'll keep giving me As until I'm ready to come back, which may be never. I'm thinking about taking my GED in a few weeks and then starting at the Extension. I've always hated high school, and it's not like I care about prom or graduation.
I pass through the hallways on the way to my locker like I have a hundred times before, yet I have the strangest feeling that something's missing. Then one of the guys from the debate team mutters, "It's the Amityville Horror, back from the dead," and I know what it is. The thing that's missing is fear. After burying both my parents, I can no longer fear these children, no matter how hard they try to hurt me.
As I fiddle with my combination lock, my redheaded nemesis appears beside me, apparently conjured from the thick, humid air. She taps my shoulder and then flinches away, as if I'm a hot stove. I go about my business, loading books into my bag.
"Excuse me?" Her voice is soft and uncertain.
"Yes?" I look down at her from my full height of five feet ten inches plus heels. I wonder how such a small, mean person ever had such a big impact on my life.
She looks ashamed. "I just want to say how sorry I am about your parents." She says it fast, as if reciting a dangerous spell.
For a moment, I think about spitting on her, or telling her to go fuck herself, or explaining in detail what a miserable hell she and her friends managed to create for me. But then I realize I feel nothing. And it's a good nothing, too. It's not emptiness, it's freedom.
"Thanks," I say, right before I turn and walk away.
/////////////////////////
Movie night, girlfriend? Pretty pretty please?
It's Maggie again. I haven't really talked to her since I got her text about NYU. I'm coming to terms with my new situation—living in Triple Marsh indefinitely, getting a service industry job, going to the Extension in my spare time—but it's a gradual thing. I'm not really in the mood to hear Maggie warble on about going to school in the big city, even if she is my best friend.
I'm also avoiding her because I've been lying to her about Ethan. She doesn't know I'm still seeing him, because I've been too embarrassed to tell her.
Before I can reply to Maggie, Ethan grabs my phone and tucks it into his jacket pocket.
"Hey!" I yelp. "I was in the middle of something."
"Kid, don't you know that it's not polite to text when someone's talking to you?" He runs a finger along my neck, evoking the queasy excitement I've come to associate with him.
I roll my eyes and stick out my tongue. "It's not polite to lie to your girlfriend. Where does she think you are tonight?"
He smirks. "I didn't lie to my girlfriend. I told her I was going to a club with a friend. You're my friend. And we're at a club. Sure, we may kiss a little and touch a little, but that doesn't mean anything."
"Yeah, whatever you say," I mutter, looking everywhere but into Ethan's eyes. This club, like all the others, has dark walls and cool lighting that somehow make everyone look smoother and slimmer. I see pretty people drinking and posturing all around me and suddenly wish I was watching movies with Maggie.
Ethan moves his chair closer to mine and whispers in my ear. "If you're tired of being a virgin, just let me know. I can show you the ropes in more ways than one. As a friend, of course."
My head practically explodes with righteous indignation. I open my mouth to release a stream of curses, but before I can answer, a heavyset man and in an oversized suit approaches the table and pulls Ethan into an awkward man-hug. Ethan introduces us with an ironic smile. "Dirk, this is my friend, Amity. Amity, this is Dirk. He owns the Kat Club."
When I stare blankly, Ethan adds, "That's the strip club where you got scared and ran away."
I nod with recognition. I remember that night very well. It was probably the last time I made a smart decision regarding my non-relationship with Ethan.
Dirk sits down next to me and scoots his chair so that he's just a few inches from my face. I can smell his sour, minty breath, so like my father's. He has close-cropped blond hair and a florid Germanic face. He takes my thin, cool hand in his plump, warm one and squeezes firmly. "I'm sorry you were scared, schatzi." I nod nervously. His gaze is intense, and he takes in every bit of me that he can see.
"Stand up," he commands.
I glance at Ethan. He shrugs. "Do what the man says." He voice is casual, but I know he means it.
I rise like the tall, gawky teenager I am while Dirk takes my physical inventory. I expect him to say something crude, or maybe mock my long limbs and small breasts. But he doesn't.
"Such long, perfect legs and such lovely, slutty hair," he sighs. "Do you know how much money you'd make at my club, schatzi?"
I don't, but I want to know. I very much want to know.
Chapter 10: Laird
It's Sunday. Dad is in New York City. Again. I'm visiting Mom's mausoleum on a day so bright and lovely it mocks death to its ugly face.
Like rich people throughout history, she built a monument to her life and death, where family and friends can visit, pay their respects and even, someday, choose to be interred close by. It's a pretty, airy space with modern lines and angles carved in classic white marble. I'm sitting outside the tomb itself on a marble bench positioned between the entryway and a waist-high wrought-iron gate.
Mom chose the highest point in the Jasper Heights Eternal Home, so I have a panoramic view of the whole cemetery. Gravestones sprawl for as far as I can see.
My phone vibrates. It's Ember.
In the mall parking lot, after my dance class?
I shake my head. I'm not going to do it this time. Every time I see Ember, I try to break up with her, and every time I try to break up with her, we end up naked and sweaty. Lately, our encounters have become frantic and desperate. We've hooked up in cars, the girl's locker room, and even in a rest area by Lake Everclear.
No time, Em. Visiting Mom.
That should shut her down for a while. Nobody wants to hear about your dead relatives. It punctures their illusion of immortality.
I put aside my phone and try talking to Mom. I feel awkward speaking aloud to the air, so I have this one-sided conversation in my head. I tell Mom how much I miss her and how Dad and I are drifting apart. I tell her that Dad practically lives in New York City now. I tell her I can't stop thinking about that damned car accident or what's going to happen to the daughter of the woman who died. I tell her I'm trying to break up with a girl who just might be a little crazy.
And then I stop. This feels too much like prayer, and I was never the church-going type. Actually, neither was Mom. I turn my head to watch a black and white bird come to rest on Mom's tomb and warble a few sweet, sad notes. Before I can get any funny ideas about spirit animals or signs, it flies away.
I hold my breath to keep from breaking into sobs. I know Mom hasn't become a benevolent spirit or a songbird sporting her favorite colors. She's simply gone. I decide this visit was a bad idea. I should have waited until I had more distance. More perspective. I wish I could fall into a dreamless sleep the way I used to when Mom was still alive. I am so sick and tired of my own thoughts.
My eyes swell and burn with unshed tears. I decide they could use a rest, even without the added bonus of unconsciousness. I stretch out on the marble bench. It's uncomfortable, but not as bad you'd expect. I close my eyes, but moments later I hear soft footsteps. I keep my eyes screwed shut and hope it's just another mourner passing by.
No such luck. The gate squeaks, a shadow falls over my face, and I know its sweetly perfumed owner has come for me.
/////////////////////////
Ember looks down at me with a small, hopeful smile. Her wispy blonde hair floats in the breeze, surrounding her face like a halo. She's wearing a short black dress that shows off her strong, supple dancer's legs. I wonder what she wearing under her dress, and a wave of self-loathing washes over me.
I sit up and take her hand. "Ember, this is my mother's tomb."
She squeezes in next to me and rubs my back. "I know. I want to be here for you now, like I couldn't be at your mom's funeral. I want to be the kind of girlfriend you deserve."
"I know, Ember," I say, resisting the urge to gather her to me. "But you can't change what happened. Neither of us can. I think we both need to move on."
She takes my hand and places it on her bare thigh. Her skin is tan, warm, and perfectly smooth. "I don't think you want to move on."
I feel myself stir and remind myself that I'm at my mother's tomb, for God's sake. "You're a beautiful girl. Of course, I want you, but..."
She cuts me off before I can say anything else. "Then what's the problem?"
"You just showed up at my mother's tomb, and now you're acting like you want to hook up right here. To be honest, it's a little creepy." When her hand flies up to cover her face, I add, "This isn't who you are, Em. You've got to stop it."
"So, I guess that's it then?" she asks, sniffling.
"Yes," I say, cautiously. "I think it's for the best."
"Friends?" She tilts her head and parts her plump, pink lips, waiting to be kissed.
"Yes." I give her a chaste peck on the cheek. "C'mon, let me walk you back to your car."
/////////////////////////
I'm driving alongside Lake Everclear, feeling like a zombie. I should feel light and free. After all, I finally ended things with Ember, and she hasn't texted me once since we left the cemetery and went our separate ways. But the silence seems vast and empty.
I try to lose myself in the feel of the road. I'm driving one of Dad's old Porsche Boxters, and it responds beautifully to even the lightest touch. I get so absorbed in the simple act of driving that I cruise right past the exit for Jasper Heights.
I take the next exit and find myself passing through Triple Marsh, the sad, rundown town where Laura Dormer and her husband lived and where, as far as I know, Amity Dormer still lives. I ask my GPS to direct me back to the highway. It quickly calculates a route and pops it onto the display screen. A breathy, feminine voice tells me to make a U-turn, when I notice a point on the map labeled Forever Acres cemetery.
I think back to all the Internet coverage I read on Laura Dormer and the accident. Forever Acres sounds familiar. I'm almost sure that's where Laura and her husband are buried. Then I get what is almost certainly a stupid idea. I'm going to go pay my respects to the woman I killed.
/////////////////////////
Forever Acres is surprisingly modern for a cemetery—especially one in Triple Marsh. A simple touch-screen kiosk allows me to look up plots by name. It takes me just a few seconds to locate Laura and Craig Dormer and print out a snazzy little map to their adjoining graves.
Following the map, I make my way down a narrow path through a dizzying array of headstones. The dead are much more densely packed here than they are in Jasper Heights. If people actually visited these graves with any frequency, mourners would have to stand sideways to avoid bumping each other's elbows.
But people rarely visit their dead. The cemetery is almost empty. As I move along the path, I notice signs of neglect. Weeds grow between the stepping stones. The grass is a couple of inches too long. I glance down at the map. I should be getting close to the Dormers' plots. When I look up, I see a tall girl in a black T-shirt and jeans, standing between two newly filled graves.
I approach slowly and cautiously, wondering if I've fallen into one of my Ambien dreams. As I get closer, I realize it's her. Amity. The girl of my dreams and my nightmares. Her arms are crossed in front of her chest, and her shoulders are slightly hunched. She's even thinner than I'd imagined, all sharp bones and hard angles.
I'm about to turn and leave—I don't want to interrupt her private grief with my guilty fixation—when she cocks her head and waves. I look around, wondering if she could be beckoning to someone else, but I'm the only one here.
Heart ski
ttering in my chest, I walk towards her. She meets me half way.
"Hi," she says, blushing prettily. "I didn't mean to disturb you. It's just that I never see any other young people here. I'm Amity." She sticks out her long, bony hand. I shake it firmly.
"I'm Laird." My stomach makes a slow, sickening roll. I have no idea if she saw the police report or if someone told her that I, Laird Conroy, was the other driver in the accident that killed her mother. I search her face for signs of recognition—or hatred—and see nothing but gentle interest.
She smiles, and her face opens up like a freshly bloomed sunflower. "Nice to meet you. I'm here for my parents. Both of them. Car wreck and, uh, alcohol poisoning. I guess I'm an orphan. What about you? Who are you here for?"
What I say next is both a lie and the truth. "My mom. She died about a month ago. I visited her grave, and then I needed to take a walk."
She nods. "I know what you mean. A month isn't very long. I'm not used to coming here. I try to talk to them—tell them about my life—but it feels weird."
Her blue eyes glisten. I open my mouth to say something comforting, but my throat constricts. Before I can stop myself, I'm racked with rough, bone-shaking sobs. I expect Amity to turn away, but she doesn't. Instead, she encircles me with her slender arms as if I'm made of eggshells. She holds me tenderly and strokes my hair while I bark and gasp and probably ruin her T-shirt with tears and snot. I breathe in her scent—a mixture of sandalwood and smoke—and it feels like she's a part of me.
When I'm finally quiet and spent, she pulls away ever so slowly. She pulls a pack of Marlboro Reds from her back pocket. "Want one?"
Amends: A Love Story Page 7
